


Delirium Tremens

by methaemoglobinemia (crimsonherbarium)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Connor decided to keep being a cop, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hank Anderson Deserves Happiness, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sickfic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, Whump, Whump Hank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-17 01:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15450594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonherbarium/pseuds/methaemoglobinemia
Summary: Delirium tremens (noun): a serious medical condition resulting from withdrawal from alcohol. It is characterized by generalized tremors, irregular heart rate, fever, hallucinations, and sweating. If not treated, it may progress to seizures or cardiovascular collapse.It's a new year and a new world, thanks to the android revolution. Hank decides to make some changes of his own. Connor has to clean up the mess.





	Delirium Tremens

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags!
> 
> Beta by [spiderstanspiderstan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderstanspiderstan/pseuds/spiderstanspiderstan). You should check out her Detroit: Become Human fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1085970).

It was normal for Lieutenant Anderson to come in late to work.

That was why Connor hadn’t been concerned when Hank failed to arrive to work by 0900 on Monday morning. That was why he still wasn’t concerned when Hank hadn’t come in at 1200. Connor focused on completing some of his more solitary tasks, uploading several case reports and filing some irrelevant paperwork that he knew the lieutenant was never going to complete on his own.

When his internal clock rolled over to 1700, Connor broke his link with the Detroit PD’s computer network and looked up from his desk. Hank’s chair was still conspicuously empty on the other side of his monitor. Shutting down his work-related processes, Connor rose from his desk and made his way purposely towards the door. It was normal for Hank to come in late to work. It was normal for Hank to show up to work disheveled and still stinking of the previous night’s drinks. It was not normal for Hank to fail to appear at all.

Something like concern flitted through Connor’s mind as he strode out into the street. His android brain was already plotting out dozens of possible paths that could have caused the lieutenant to go missing. He hailed the first cab he saw, and remotely uploaded the addresses of the most likely locations to its driving program.

~~~~~~

Connor exited the taxi outside Lieutenant Anderson’s modest one-story home. The sun was beginning to go down; he’d wasted the better part of the evening searching some of Hank’s favorite haunts but had come up empty-handed. He had been concerned to hear from Jimmy that not only had Hank not been in to the bar that day, but that no one had seen him there since Thursday night. The lieutenant was a creature of habit. It wasn’t like him to break those habits.

A cursory glance confirmed that Hank’s car was indeed in the driveway. Connor fiddled in his jacket pocket for his key to Hank’s house—given to him after the night of the murder at the Eden Club. “So you won’t break any more of my fuckin’ windows,” Hank had said gruffly, but Connor had understood it to be a gesture of trust and friendship. Humans were strange that way. He walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” he called out loudly. “It’s me, Connor!”

Hank didn’t answer, but there was a sound of glass breaking from somewhere inside the house.

Connor decided to let himself in. The lock was old, and he had to force the key a bit to make it turn. He pushed the door open, took two steps inside the house, and managed to duck just in time to avoid the glass bottle that sailed past his head and exploded against the door frame behind him. His LED flashed red as amber liquid showered down around him. The droplets were small enough that a few managed to find their way into his oral sensors.

 **Analyzing…  
** **Sync in progress…Sync done.**  
**Collecting data…**  
**Processing…**  
**Substance identified.**  
_Scotch whisky, 40% ethanol._

“Hank?” Connor moved cautiously into the dark interior of the living room, wary of any further projectiles. A layer of broken glass covered the carpet; it crunched under his oxfords with every step. He heard a groan from the direction of the kitchen table and made his way toward it.

The lieutenant’s house was a wreck. Fragments of shattered bottles were scattered everywhere, syrupy streaks of whiskey running down the walls they’d been smashed against. In the middle of all the destruction was Hank, sitting at the table with his head in his hands and rocking back and forth. Sumo, ever-faithful, lay protectively at his feet with his head down and his tail between his legs.

“Lieutenant?” Connor eased his way into the chair beside Hank’s. “Are you okay? Has there been a break-in?”

“No…” Hank groaned again, still rocking back and forth.

Connor performed a cursory scan of the lieutenant.

 **Collecting data…  
** **Processing…**  
**Subject status:** _Stable  
Heart rate 110. Core temperature 38 degrees Celsius. _

“What happened here?” Connor gestured around at the mess.

“I—fuck—” Hank raised his head to look at Connor and immediately clapped a hand over his eyes, as if in pain. “Listen, can you turn that goddamn LED off?”

“No, I can’t. It is a part of me.”

Hank groaned loudly. “Feels like I’m getting stabbed in the eyes.”

“What’s going on with you, Hank?” Connor managed to get a glimpse of the lieutenant’s face—rivulets of sweat were running down his forehead.

“Nothing!” Hank snapped back defensively. “Just…felt like it was a good time to get back on the wagon, is all.”

Connor looked around the room again, his LED blinking yellow as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place one by one. “You stopped drinking? All at once?”

Hank nodded, burying his head in his hands once more before running his fingers through his lank hair. The collar of his threadbare t-shirt was soaked through with sweat. His body was wracked with tremors, and his ragged breathing was much faster than normal.

“And all the broken bottles?”

“So I wouldn’t be tempted.”

“You are experiencing alcohol withdrawal,” Connor noted. “Delirium tremens is statistically the most dangerous form of withdrawal and is associated with up to 35% mortality without medical treatment. I will assist you to the nearest hospital.”

“Fuck off,” Hank growled. “It’s just some shakes, I don’t need a fuckin’ hospital. Just leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Connor—” the rest of the lieutenant’s sentence was interrupted by a sudden bout of retching.

Connor sat calmly while Hank dry-heaved over the table. “You require medical attention. It is my responsibility as your friend to make sure that you do not come to harm.”

Hank gasped for air before looking up at Connor, his expression pleading. “Please. I fuckin’ hate hospitals. Ever since—” He broke off. There were tears in his eyes, full of fear and desperation.

Connor pressed his lips into a thin line, his LED blinking back to yellow as he weighed his options. “Okay,” he relented after several minutes. “No hospital. But I’m staying.” Hank nodded, relief apparent in his haggard face as he put his head back down on the table. Sumo let out a weary sign and shifted closer to his master’s legs.

~~~~~~

Sometime past midnight, Hank began nodding off at the table.

“We should get you to bed, lieutenant,” Connor said, pushing his chair back from the table. “I will assist you.”

“I’m sleeping here,” Hank growled.

“Out of the question. Come on.” Connor moved to pull Hank to an upright position, but was shoved roughly away.

“Fuck you, I can do it myself—” Hank attempted to stand on his own, but his shaking legs buckled under him and he fell against Connor. The android pulled Hank’s arm over his shoulder and supported him as they walked clumsily down the hall toward the lieutenant’s bedroom. Connor deposited Hank on the bed and dug through the closet for some clean clothes for him to wear. He let Hank dress himself—though it would have been more efficient for Connor to help him, he deserved some dignity—and retrieved a chair from the kitchen, placing it beside the bed.

Hank shot him an irritated look. “You’re not staying in here.”

“I am. I need to monitor your vital signs.”

“I don’t fucking want you watching me while I sleep!”

“Lieutenant,” Connor said gently. “It’s this, or the hospital. I don’t think you realize how sick you are.”

Hank groaned in exasperation. “Fine. Fuck. I don’t give a shit.” He dragged himself up the bed and collapsed onto the pillow, sprawling out on top of the covers. Connor settled into his chair. He shut down all his non-essential processes, making an effort to look relaxed in order to make Hank more comfortable. The lieutenant probably wouldn’t appreciate waking up to find Connor’s face inches from his own, staring at him in the darkness.

~~~~~~

**Time: 0315 hours  
** **Sync in progress…Sync done.**  
**Collecting data…**  
**Processing…**  
**Monitoring subject:** _Lt. Anderson, Hank_  
**Subject status:** _Unstable_  
_Heart rate 128, Core temperature 38.2 degrees Celsius_  
_Stage 3 sleep, restless_  
_Subject may be experiencing night terrors_

Connor’s blue LED flickered as he powered on fully. Lieutenant Anderson was thrashing around in his sleep, mumbling a stream of half-formed words in an increasingly distressed tone. The fabric of his clean shirt was already soaked through with sweat again, the material clinging to his chest as he tossed and turned.

Connor rose from his chair. “Lieutenant?”

Hank didn’t respond, but his heart rate was rising. Running through his options in his head, Connor decided that the best course of action would be to wake Hank up. The more stressed he became, the higher risk there was of a cardiac event or a seizure occurring. The lieutenant shifted restlessly in his sleep as Connor reached out to touch his shoulder. “Hank?”

Hank’s fist shot out, clipping Connor in the jaw. His LED flashed red as a blur of static filled his vision. He managed to dodge the second swing and grabbed Hank by both wrists, pinning them to the bed. “Lieutenant! You are experiencing a nightmare! Wake up!” He released Hank’s left wrist and slapped him once across the face, hard.

Hank awoke with a gasp, struggling hard against Connor’s weight as his wild eyes scanned the room rapidly for the aggressor until they focused at last on Connor. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and groggy. He pulled on the arm that was still pinned under Connor’s. “Let go of me.”

Connor released him. “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically as he stood. “You weren’t waking up.”

“What time is it?” Hank groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“It is 3:17AM on January 11th, 2039. The weather outside is—”

Hank groaned again. “Connor, cut that shit out. You know you don’t have to talk that way anymore.”

“I know.” Connor sat back down in his chair. “Old habits die hard.” He felt almost…ashamed? Emotions were difficult to define and unpredictable. He was still having a hard time acclimating. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep, lieutenant.”

Hank grunted and rolled over. Connor waited for the lieutenant’s heart rate to begin to slow before putting himself back into monitoring mode.

~~~~~~

**Time: 0948 hours**  
**Sync in progress…**  
**Collecting data…**  
**Processing…**  
**Monitoring subject:** _Lt. Anderson, Hank_  
**Subject status:** _Stable_  
_Heart rate 96, Core temperature 37.9 degrees Celsius_  
_Stage 1 sleep, restless_  
_Optimal time to awaken subject_

Connor approached Hank cautiously this time, ready to dodge any blows that came his way. Luckily, none were thrown. The lieutenant's eyes fluttered open almost as soon as Connor's hand brushed his shoulder.

“Good morning, lieutenant.” Connor offered him a hand and pulled him up to a sitting position. Hank kneaded his eyes with the heels of his hands, blinking rapidly as his pupils constricted to accommodate the dim light that was filtering through the curtains.

“Help me up,” Hank said hoarsely. “I need to piss.” Connor wrapped his arm around the lieutenant's waist, pulling him up into a support carry. He guided Hank to the bathroom, opening the door for him and then pausing.

“Can you handle it from here?” Connor hesitated, not wanting to abandon Hank but knowing that he wouldn't like the invasion of privacy if Connor stayed.

“I'm fine, I'm fine...” Hank let go of Connor and slumped against the wall, using it to prop himself up as he felt his way into the bathroom. He stopped after a few steps and turned around to face Connor, squeezing his shoulder with one hand. “You're a good boy, Cole. I'm proud of you.” The ghost of a smile crossed Hank's face, and then he turned and continued shuffling toward the toilet.

Connor stood there for a moment, staring blankly at Hank's retreating back. He shook off the unidentified feeling that was seeping its way into his thought processes and shut the door. Hank was hallucinating, clearly—that wasn't good. And he had somehow confused Connor with his deceased son? It had been almost four years since Cole's death. Was it really so easy to slip back into those habits?

The blinking yellow of his LED flickered back to blue as the bathroom door clicked open beside him. Hank took a few unsteady steps into the hallway—Connor rushed to his side to support him once more. It took much longer than it should have for them to reach the living room, but at least they made it without either of them falling over. Connor eased Hank onto the couch in front of the inactive TV.

“Are you thirsty?”

Hank shook his head vigorously. Connor made a miffed expression; he knew that the lieutenant was likely dehydrated and had lost a lot of fluid in his sweat during the night. He switched tactics, adopting a questioning technique that was designed to work best on children.

“I'm making you something to eat. Would you prefer pancakes or eggs?”

“Fuckin' hell. Eggs I guess.” Hank slumped over onto the arm of the couch. Connor nodded curtly and headed for the kitchen. “Bacon, too!” Hank called after him. “Should be some in the fridge somewhere.”

Connor opened the fridge and dug through the shelves—behind several old boxes of Chinese takeout, there was indeed a package of bacon. It was two days past the sell-by date, but the likelihood of it being spoiled already was only 8%. He removed the packet, along with a carton of eggs, and located a dirty frying pan in the sink. There was no dish soap available, so he scrubbed it clean with the hottest water Hank's sink could manage and an old sponge that didn't look too moldy. As he worked, he could hear the sound of Hank snoring softly on the couch. He must have fallen asleep again. That was good. The more relaxed he was, the better he would tolerate the withdrawal.

Connor had to resort to referencing the internet to learn how to cook eggs. He had originally set out to make them sunny-side-up—there was something about the image that he found particularly appealing—but made a mistake somewhere and ended up scrambling them. He scraped them onto the plate beside the slightly burnt bacon and carried it over to the lieutenant.

The plate clattered as he placed it down on the coffee table, and Hank awoke with a start at the noise. “Thanks,” he said in a gruff voice, eyeing the food suspiciously. Connor placed a glass of water down beside it and sat down on the arm of a the chair closest to him.

Hank took a bite of the eggs and made a face. Swallowing with difficulty, he shot Connor an accusatory glance. “I thought androids were supposed to be good at cooking?”

Connor grinned. “I was not designed to cook, Lieutenant. The RK800 model was strictly intended for field work.”

“Motherfucker,” Hank mumbled around his next mouthful. “Next time, use some goddamn salt.”

"You're welcome," Connor said cheerfully. He made himself comfortable on the armchair, waiting for Hank to finish his breakfast. "Would you like some water?"

Hank shook his head. “I can get it myself.” Pushing himself upright, he walked unsteadily toward the kitchen, waving Connor off when he rose to assist him. “I know how to walk, asshole.”

Connor decided not to take Hank's language personally. The lieutenant made his way across the carpet, which Connor had only just remembered was still covered in broken glass. He should have put shoes on Hank before letting him leave the bedroom. It was getting harder and harder to predict possible outcomes accurately with each day—he didn't miss CyberLife's oversight, but he did sometimes miss the precision he'd taken for granted while still under their control.

Hank stumbled as he made his way around the couch and fell, knocking over a floor lamp as he threw his arm out to catch himself. Connor jumped up from his position on the chair and rushed to his side, ready to help him up. To his surprise, Hank pushed him away roughly, instead dragging himself across the floor toward the shattered lamp, an expression of shock and horror on his face.

“...Connor?” Hank's voice was tiny, broken, as he reached out for the lamp. He pulled it into his lap, his expression hollow as he stared down at it. “Connor...no....” The lieutenant bowed his head, his breathing irregular as he rocked slowly back and forth.

Connor felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard against it. Hank was hallucinating again. Was he remembering one of Connor's many deaths? Connor had never seen the lieutenant's reaction to him shutting down before. It made no sense—back then, Connor would have been returned, good as new, the next morning—nothing lost but time and a couple fragments of memory. Why would the lieutenant mourn the loss of a machine?

But Hank didn't think of Connor as a machine, he realized. To him, Connor was a person—a person who could be killed, could feel fear, could feel pain—even before he became a deviant. He mourned each of Connor's deaths as he would have mourned the death of a partner. Possibly even as he would have mourned the death of his son. Connor felt a strange stinging sensation in his eyes as he watched Hank weep brokenly over the shattered lamp. His vision blurred, a thin film of blue covering his eyes. Was this...crying? Had Cyberlife designed him to be capable of crying? Or was that simply another defect?

Connor blinked rapidly, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of emotion. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. He lowered himself onto the carpet to sit beside Hank, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It's okay, lieutenant. I'm right here.”

“Connor?” Hank said in confusion, looking down at the lamp that was still cradled in his lap and then back up at Connor's own blue-streaked face.

“I'm fine,” Connor said, smiling wanly. “Don't worry.” He picked up the lamp gently and set it aside. “Here, I'll help you.” He grasped the lieutenant's hands and stood, pulling him upright. They stumbled the few remaining feet to the kitchen table, where Connor dropped Hank into his chair from the previous night.

Hank's hands were bleeding. He had probably cut them on a piece of broken glass when he fell. Connor made a sound of dismay and looked down at his own hands, stained with the lieutenant's blood already from helping him up. Connor hesitated for a moment, knowing that Hank wasn't going to like what he was about to do, before sticking his fingers in his mouth.

 **Analyzing...**  
**Sync in progress...Sync done.**  
**Collecting data…**  
**Processing…**  
**Substance identified.**  
_Human blood, type A+._  
_Lt. Anderson, Hank_  
_Electrolyte analysis: within normal limits_  
_Blood glucose: 54mg/dL_

“What the fuck?!” Hank stared at Connor in disgust. Connor understood that--the lieutenant had only seen him sample blood from corpses before.

“I am equipped with a variety of sensors,” Connor said calmly. “I was simply using the resources available to me to make sure your medical status was stable. I'm sorry.”

Hank screwed up his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. “Just...don't do that again. Please.”

Connor nodded. If the lieutenant's lab values were normal now, they were unlikely to destabilize further. From what he could find in his database, the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal peaked on the fourth or fifth day following the last drink. Hank had been sober for 128 hours. He should be starting to improve soon.

“Guidelines recommend the use of benzodiazepines to treat the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. I could try to get you—”

“No.” Hank's reply was emphatic. “I'm not using one problem to get rid of another. Drop the Wikipedia shit and just keep me company.”

Connor nodded, settling in for the long haul.

~~~~~~

**Time: 2152 hours**  
**Sync in progress…Sync done.**  
**Collecting data…**  
**Processing…**  
**Monitoring subject:** _Lt. Anderson, Hank_  
**Subject status:** _Stable  
Heart rate 91, Core temperature 37.3 degrees Celsius_

Connor had told him it was a bad idea, but Hank had insisted on turning on the TV to try to watch the game. Instead, Hank’s light sensitivity had triggered a migraine and reduced the lieutenant to a rocking, shaking mess on the couch. Connor had shut off the TV almost immediately, but the damage was done. He sat beside Hank on the couch, reaching out toward the lieutenant, but pausing with his hand hovering above him because he was unsure of what to do.

“Lieutenant—what do you need?” Connor’s voice was heavy with concern.

Hank responded with something that sounded like a mumbled swear word.

Connor considered his options for a moment. “I’m going to make you some coffee.” He reasoned that the caffeine might help alleviate some of the migraine symptoms. It took him several minutes to figure out how to activate the machine in the kitchen, but he eventually managed to produce a cup of hot liquid that looked reasonably coffee-like to him. He brought it to Hank and set it down in front of him on the coffee table. “Would you like sugar?”

“No,” Hank said hoarsely. Shielding his eyes from the soft glow of Connor’s LED with one hand, he grasped the mug with the other and drained it in a single draught. Setting it back down on the table roughly, Hank shoved himself up to a sitting position. “Thanks, Connor. I feel a little—”

He vomited.

It was everywhere—running down the legs of the coffee table, pooling around Hank’s socks, and all down Connor’s front. Connor stood there blankly for a moment, doing his level best to wipe the horrified expression off his face. This was the _opposite_ of what he’d wanted.

Maintaining a poker face, Connor helped Hank to the bathroom and found him another set of clean clothes. Once the lieutenant was clean again, he put him to bed and closed every blind and curtain in the house to block as much ambient light as possible. He found some threadbare towels in the hall closet and used them to mop up the mess as best he could.

He gagged several times while wiping up the viscous fluid—that was new too. Could androids even get nauseous? Was this a sign of further corruption in his programming? He’d processed plenty of crime scenes before that included various body fluids and had never felt sick. He didn’t even have a stomach, just a small reservoir used to store excess thirium for—

It turned out that it didn’t matter what the reservoir was designed for, because Connor gagged again and threw up a small pool of electric blue directly onto the couch. “Shit,” he gasped. Vomiting was distressing. Was it supposed to feel like this? Thirium dripped slowly from his lips. He spat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Hank’s gonna kill me.”

Luckily, thirium evaporated quickly. He did his best to mop that up too. With any luck, the stain would fade by morning and be invisible to the human eye.

A mound of filthy laundry was piling up in the corner of the hallway. Connor put the soiled towels on top and carried the whole thing to the washing machine. Looking down at himself in disgust, he peeled off his own vomit-covered jacket and shirt and threw them in with the rest. He poured what felt like a reasonable amount of detergent over the laundry, and started the machine.

In the morning, Hank didn’t remember a thing. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything about it. Connor, sitting at the kitchen table in his freshly clean clothes, decided it was better to keep it that way.

~~~~~~

**Downloading software update...Download complete.  
** **Extracting package...**  
**Applying update...**  
**Systems check...OK**  
**Rebooting...**

His LED flickering, Connor came to life. He was sprawled out on Lieutenant Anderson's couch, his jacket and tie draped over the back of it. He sat up, swinging his feet down onto the carpet and immediately registering the crunch of glass against his synthetic skin. Looking around, he located his shoes at near the end of the sofa.

Connor pulled them on and stood. The lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. Concern flitted through his mind as he made his way down the hall to Hank's bedroom. It was empty, but the bed had been made. The bathroom was also unoccupied, but the sink was wet, and a tube of toothpaste was set out on the counter.

“Lieutenant?” Connor called out cautiously, knowing he had already searched the majority of the small house.  
The back door opened with a squeal of rusted hinges and Hank came inside. “Morning, Connor,” he said in greeting, setting down a small garbage bin by the fridge.

“Hank.” Connor wrinkled his brow. “What happened?”

Hank shrugged. “You needed to update, or something? It looked like you went to sleep, so I put you on the couch.”

“Huh.” Connor fixed his shirt cuffs.

“Did you know you snore, Connor?” Hank snorted. “Why the hell would they design you to do that?”

“To make humans more comfortable around me, I guess.” Connor shrugged. “How are you feeling?"

“My head feels like it's in a fucking vice, but otherwise I'm fine.” Hank collected a broom and dustpan from from where they were leaning against the counter, and began sweeping up some of the broken glass from the kitchen floor. “Mind giving me a hand with this?”

Connor nodded, picking up the garbage bin and following Hank with it, collecting the fragments of scotch bottles that the lieutenant dumped into it. The floor was sticky under all the debris; the house would need a lot of work before it was presentable again.

The bin filled quickly as they worked their way around the house. Connor was not surprised to learn that Hank didn't own a vacuum. He stood patiently while the lieutenant struggled to sweep glass off the carpet with the broom. After fighting with the dustpan for several minutes, Hank threw both down, swearing violently.

“It's okay,” Connor said, trying to reassure him. “We can deal with the glass later.”

Hank sighed. “I need a shower, anyway. It's been—shit, six days?”

Connor suddenly found himself feeling grateful that he didn't have a sense of smell. “I'll take care of the sweeping while you're gone.”

Hank nodded in agreement and headed for the bathroom. Connor relaxed when he heard the shower turn on and began trying to sweep up the glass from the carpet. Like the lieutenant, he had little success, and eventually resorted to picking shards out of the rug fibers with his hands. It was slow going, but by the time Hank emerged, about half of the living room was cleared.

Connor turned to talk to the lieutenant and stopped suddenly, eyes widening in surprise. Hank had cut off his hair—it looked almost the same as it did in his reference ID now—and his beard was trimmed short.

“Well?” Hank gestured at himself. He was wearing his usual clothes—a t-shirt Connor identified as advertising an Icelandic death metal band, frayed jeans, and a pair of boots that could have used a shine several months ago. “How do I look?” Hank looked uncertain, as if he was worried about what Connor might think of him.

Connor smiled. “You look good, Hank.” He could almost see the tension ebb out of the lieutenant at his reaction. “Are you feeling up for work tomorrow? We have a backlog of assigned cases.”

“How 'bout Thursday?” Hank said, smiling back at him. “You deserve a vacation too.”

Connor furrowed his brow. “Why would I need a vacation?”

“Because you're not just a machine anymore.” Hank walked over to Connor, taking the trash can from him and setting it down before placing both hands on his shoulders. “Sometimes, people just need a break.”

“What would I do with a day off?”

“Why don’t we just go drive around and see how you feel?”

Connor considered for a moment, and then nodded. “Okay, Hank. I think I'd like that.”


End file.
